Without further discussion, Percy raised his hands above his head and stood before Ooma. In the island dialect he said, “My father, Ooma! The Witman, who Yani calls Big Man Duff, wants to be known to you. He will be living here on our island for a long time.”
The pot-bellied, old man focused his eyes on the white man who was dressed somewhat like a Patrol Officer. His face was expressionless as he asked, “Why?”
“His people have sent him here. He has magic boxes. He can talk to the Witmen on the boat through his magic boxes. He will go up the side of the volcano and make a place to live.” Percy showed Ooma the big package containing the waterproof tent, which Yani had just unloaded from the lifeboat.
“How can he live in that?” the old man asked, touching the rubberized fabric.
“It is like a giant banana leaf, stretched out on bamboo poles,” Percy said. “You will see. They have strange ways.”
When he saw the rifle in the boat, Ooma became angry. “Does he bring that to kill our people? If he does, we will kill him now and save us the trouble later.”
Although he could have answered himself, Percy directed his question to Dr. McDuff. “He wants to know why you have brought the rifle with you. Do you plan to kill his people when they don’t do what you say?”
“No, no, no,” he answered excitedly. “Tell him that we are at war with the Japanese and I bring these with me in case I have to defend myself. In fact, tell him I’m not even sure I could shoot a Japanese person in battle. I am a man of peace. I am a trained clergyman. I am a servant of the Lord, but now I must help my friends, the Australians, keep the Japanese out of the islands.”
“The Witman says he needs it to kill the Japfellas when they come,” Percy said.
Yani recognized this conversation as getting remarkably close to the one that took place in the circle the night before. “Big Man Duff will not kill anyone,” Yani assured his spiritual father. “We will go up the mountainside, and set up our camp. We will look out over the ocean...” As he had been shown by McDuff many months ago, he shaded his eyes with his right hand and mimed a scanning of the horizon. Then he circled his eyes with his fingers, as though they were binoculars. “... We look. When we see Japfella ship, Big Man Duff sends message to Kilibob’s boat with magic boxes. We will not shoot anybody. No Japfellas are on this island.”
The old man looked over the Witman and his boat full of supplies. “I want to see the magic boxes that talk to Kilibob,” Ooma said. Yani translated the request and McDuff dug through the stack for the radio-telegraph sending equipment until he found the crate.
“Yani, tell Ooma that I have to set it up after we unpack everything. He can come for a visit to our camp, and I will give him a demonstration. Meanwhile, give him some tinkens to show him that we are friends.”
Yani said, “Big Man Duff has to do his magic with the boxes when we climb the mountain. You come later and he will show you the talking boxes.” He looked through the food stores and his face lit up. He came across some cans with a color drawing of a large tuna fish on the label. He tore the paper label off and presented it to Ooma with great ceremony.
The old shaman would have been pleased to get the label alone, he was so stricken by its life-like quality. He was sure it would be useful in attracting large numbers of fish into the lagoon if used properly. However, Yani startled all the people within earshot when he said, “In this tinken is the fish in the picture.”
“How can that be?” one of the disbelieving onlookers commented. “No one can get a fish in a tinken.” The others laughed in agreement.
“Not only is there a fish in this tinken,” he announced in a loud voice, “I was in Heaven and saw our ancestors cutting up the fish.” He pointed to the sky. “I saw them put the pieces of fish into the tinkens. Now I have brought those tinkens from Heaven to our island.”
“Heaven ?” said Ooma, prepared for more revelations of the kind his sons had been spewing forth since yesterday. “Ancestors?”
Yani was very proud of himself. He had captured Ooma’s attention, and that of the entire village. He turned to McDuff and said, “They want to know about Heaven, sir. You talk and I tell them the story in Booga-booga.”
McDuff was delighted. He told Yani to have everyone sit down on the beach and make themselves comfortable. The minister could not walk away from his old profession as easily as he thought. He climbed onto the prow of the boat so all could see and hear him. Yani stood next to him and did his best to translate his words.
“In the beginning God created Heaven and Earth...” he began. Negeb who recognized that the Witman was reverting to being a churchfella, settled down as well. He made himself comfortable, thinking of the warnings of John Frum. He knew his people loved nothing as much as a good story, and this was going to be a long one.
___
Back on the Wombat, Mr. Gale was watching them through the binoculars. “Well, I’ll be God-damned,” he said. “I do believe he’s giving a sermon!”
***
It was almost sunset by the time McDuff’s equipment was unloaded from the boat and the villagers carried it up the worn path on the side of the volcano. Near the top, there was a natural clearing where the soil was too thin to support jungle plants on a tabletop of basalt. Nothing but small tufts of vegetation sprouted up in the cracks.
In earlier times, this had been the site of violent human sacrifices and the islanders refused to set foot on the exposed rock for fear of misplaced and angry spirits who still wandered about. The best McDuff could get them to do was stack his boxes and cartons in the high grass that surrounded the platform.
It gave a commanding view of the Pacific Ocean, especially in the direction of New Guinea. It was the movements of ships in that direction that especially interested the military authorities. McDuff peered down on the Wombat just in time to see Percy steering the lifeboat alongside.
A realization hit him. “I almost forgot,” McDuff said to Yani. “They are waiting to see if our radio-telegraph works. They can’t leave until we send a test message. Quick, get it out of the boxes and set it up.”
Back on the Wombat Yani had set up the sending equipment no less than 25 times in practice drills. He knew how to connect the hand-cranked generator up to the radio blindfolded. In fact, just for fun the Witmen had him do so several times with his red calico headband around his eyes. In a matter of minutes, they were on the air.
Ooma arrived on the scene shortly after the boxes had been stacked. As the spiritual leader of the tribe, he had no compunction about entering the taboo area. The spirits were under his control. He watched with pride, as Yani seemed to be running things. The Witman just stood around with a strange headdress that covered his ears. He held a mysterious looking box, and was awaiting Yani’s nod to tell him the conditions were right.
Everyone was focused on the two-handed, manually cranked generator that Yani sat in front of. He began to turn the bicycle pedal handles slowly and it gave forth a low grinding noise that built up to a high-pitched squeal. A flywheel picked up momentum and it spun along as though it were in high gear. No one paid any attention to the Witman picking out little clicks with his instrument. Yani was the big show, making humming noises that echoed those of the generator.
“Dash dash/ dash dash dash/ dot dot dot/ dot/ dot dot dot,” McDuff quickly tapped out. It was International Morse Code for “MOSES” — his call sign (which would later be abbreviated to two dashes, followed by three dashes — just plain “MO”). “We have established camp. Please acknowledge signal.”
Over the earphones there came a rapid series of beeps and buzzes, which read: “Do not forget why you are there. You can save souls for Jesus after the war. Wembly”
“Satan never sleeps,” he answered.
Gale answered, “Then stay awake in case he passes in the night. Les.”
Ooma was not impressed. The generator was noisy, but he did not see any magic being performed. He had no idea of any conversation transpiring
through the magic boxes. Yani told McDuff that Ooma wanted some kind of a demonstration of the magic boxes.
McDuff relayed the message to Wembly for a suggestion.
A few minutes later, he had one.
“Keep turning your generator, Yani. Tell Ooma to come over to me at the magic box.”
The old man did as he was told. “Now tell him to put his finger on the place where the wire is connected.” Again, he did so, and felt nothing. McDuff put his left hand on the other terminal and extended his somewhat sweaty right, offering it to Ooma. The shaman understood and the Witman grasped his fingers. The jolt was painful to both men, but the American was expecting it. The Chase Islander jumped back and broke the circuit, but it was long enough to make him aware of the power in the box.
The clincher was aboard the Wombat. The moment Wembly heard the static of the touch, he pulled down hard on the ship’s fog horn, giving it a full 30-second blast. Gale fired the quad-50 machine guns out to sea, and Percy turned on the powerful searchlight mounted above the bridge. He shone it about in the deepening twilight until he zeroed in on the spot where everyone was gathered.
The word “stunned” was inadequate to describe the response of the islanders looking down on the patrol boat bobbing outside the reef.
***
The next day the Coast Watchers were settled in. “Looks like we’re here for the duration, as the Aussies say,” McDuff told Yani. “I think we should establish some kind of shift and routine for ourselves. We need to look in all directions, not just the one on our front porch.”
“Front porch?” Yani said.
“Just an expression,” the American answered. “Does the trail we came up go to the top of the volcano? Is there any place to get a view of the other side of the island?”
“All island have walk-about on top of volcanoes. People live in volcanoes. Negeb said on Tanna there is cargo in their volcano. A Witman came to visit their volcano — it is called Yasur — but they would not let him go down inside it. They say the Witman knows what is in it. He wants to take it.
“They have a place like this,” Yani said, gesturing to the plateau on which they stood. “On the top of the volcano. Spirit people live there — both Blackfella and Witman.”
McDuff pointed to his head and tapped his right temple. “I think Percy has an imagination. He listens to too many stories.” He was trying to be gentle in his criticism. As they climbed along the trail, he asked how anyone could live there.
Yani did not respond with any rational explanation, but continued with what Percy had told him.
“On the far side of the volcano they say there are holes. Two women fell into them. They are still there. They want men so bad they will ... how you say ... ra-pay any man who gets lost.”
“Rape is the word,” McDuff said somewhat reluctantly.
Judging from the women I have seen, he said to himself, thinking back to the spectacle at Thompson’s that seemed like years ago, I don’t doubt that is impossible in this part of the world. After a few more steps he thought, “Lord, how I miss Leslie.”
Yani continued talking as they climbed. Much of what he said was irrational, and McDuff missed much of it while he was lost in his own thoughts.
“...a fellow told Negeb that he saw the ground open up. A snake or lizard spoke to him. It held up its hand and said John Frum is going to bring Cargo...”
The name John Frum caught the Witman’s attention, and a red flag went up. For lack of something else to say, he argued, “How can a snake have a hand. He was making it all up.”
Without breaking stride, Yani said, “O.K., then it must have been a lizard. But he said, `John Frum, he come!’“
“And just what will John Frum do when he comes, Yani?”
“He will bring Cargo for the Blackfella ... just like he does for the Witman.”
McDuff ‘s inappropriate thoughts of Santa Claus were interrupted by a sudden shaking of the ground. He fell to his knees, and grabbed a nearby bush.
“People in volcano say hello!” Yani announced, not in the least worried. He had grown up with earth tremors on this island. A minor “wake up call” like this was nothing to fear.
***
Moses McDuff looked out at the aquamarine seascape that spread to the horizon. From his perch on the stone shelf near the top of the volcanic mountain, he could just barely make out the presence of another island in the distance. What made it visible was the cloud formation that arose from the temperature differential of the land being surrounded by the cooling effects of the ocean.
For the first time in his life, the American felt able to relax. The White Man’s Burden was something he had decided not just to cast aside, but to walk away from. He was not a subject of the British Empire and had no desire to be a part of the system of Anglicizing or civilizing the brown-skinned people who lived in these islands. Yani had woven two hammocks from the reeds and weeds he found near the lake at the center of the island. Each was spread between two tree trunks, and turned out to be quite comfortable. At this level, there were few insects to cause them any problem.
I wonder if the malarial fever affected my brain, he thought. I seem to have left all responsibility down at sea level. Here I am an ordained minister of the Gospel, lounging in the sun on a tropical isle not giving a rat’s footprint for anything. Meanwhile, my family is no doubt battling the slush and wet winds of December. I have abandoned my missionary calling and feel no obligation to persuade these simple people that my point of view is any better than theirs. Their ancestors have lived on this island for hundreds — maybe thousands of years. They’ve learned that some behaviors would keep you alive and others would end in disaster. They probably had things figured out for this part of the world while we were killing Saracens in the name of Jesus during the Crusades.
Maybe Leslie was right. We’re just superior savages. Maybe after all this trouble with the Japanese dies down we can do something to really help these people. Maybe Western Civilization isn’t what these people need.
His reveries were interrupted by the ringing of a wind-up alarm clock. It was noon — time for him to make his daily radio contact with Port Moresby or the nearest British ship. As usual, he had nothing to report. There were no ships of any flag visible from Chase Island this quiet Sunday afternoon. Still mindful of the Sabbath, McDuff had conducted private worship services for Yani and himself at sunrise.
Over the weeks that he had been there, Moses McDuff had fallen into the habit of using the shorthand telegraphers around the world worked out among themselves. He signed on: “Mo/Isaiah 20,” giving his call sign and the code of the day. He tapped it out three times, and waited for a response. He had barely clicked in the final letter, when his receiver all but buzzed frantically. It was almost going too fast to follow, but he concentrated and wrote down the letters as they came through.
“Mo. Japs attacked Hawaii at dawn. America is in the war. Les. 7Dec41 12:05 p.m.”
McDuff could not believe what he had spelled out on the code pad. He flashed the signal meaning. “Please repeat message.”
The second time, the message read the same. Leslie Gale added. “Looks like you are no longer lend-lease. Things are really critical. The Japs are massing to invade the Philippines.”
He and Leslie talked back and forth about the heightened tension that would grip the island. After a while they slowed down to a conversational level. “Lousy maps,” Moses said. “I can see an island to the north but no name on the chart. What is it called?”
A few minutes later, Gale said, “One nearest you has no name. Keep going in a far northerly direction and you come to one called Guadalcanal. Nothing much ever happens there.”
Chapter 26
“Well, boy, didn’t anybody ever tell you that the U.S. Navy doesn’t accept colored recruits,” the petty officer smirked.
“No, sir. I just assumed that we were all Americans and you wanted to get as many good men to join up as possible. There’s no reason I
can’t fight Japs like everybody else,” the tall black youth answered.
“Have you ever seen a colored sailor?”
“On freighters,” he said. “I have two uncles who sail between Boston and France on a regular basis. I imagine we could do just as good a job on Navy ships.”
“Well, don’t imagine too much, boy. The Navy doesn’t like people with imaginations. We like people who do as they are told. The only colored sailors are mess stewards. Got that?” the petty officer glared.
The young man did not answer.
“This must be your lucky day, boy. I just got orders this morning to accept Negro recruits. The U.S. Navy will actually take applications from Negroes. That’s a first in Naval history. I don’t think too much of the idea, but like I said — the Navy likes us to do what we’re told.”
He shoved a clipboard with a sheaf of papers on it toward him. “Can you read and write?”
“Yes, sir,” he said quietly, avoiding raising the petty officer’s anger any further. He accepted the application forms.
“Go sit at that table over there, and fill these out. Then bring them back to me,” he said, biting the corner of his lip in frustration. “I can imagine how you’ll look in dress whites.”
John Bartlett was not ashamed of his very dark skin. He could not resist returning the comeback, regardless of the possible consequences. “It doesn’t come off, sir. It’s not shoe polish.”
When Bartlett got home later that afternoon, he went directly into the kitchen. His mother, Rose, was polishing a huge silver coffee urn. “Johnny, where have you been? There’s a million things to be done. We have twenty-four people coming for dinner, and the table hasn’t been set yet. Bessie is late and your father is trying to do it all himself.”
“I’m not going to serve dinner, Mama. I’m going out with my friends.”
His mother almost dropped the urn. “What? What do you mean you’re goin’ out with you friends?”
When John Frum Came Page 21